Voicemail
by rockpaperscissor
Summary: AU. If Dean had gotten his way. If Sam had never figured out about the deal. If Dean's one year had been completely different - this is how he would have said goodbye.
1. Voicemail

**Voicemail**

* * *

A/N: In this very AU story, Sam never figured out about the deal, was never told about it either, and went back to Stanford after Dean killed Azazel and John went to wherever good dead people go. It also assumes that Dean skedaddled not too long after getting Sam settled to take care of the demons-getting-out-thing, as well as to keep any demon from tattling about the deal. Sam had tried tracking down his brother, of course, but it was pretty much a failure, so lacking anything else to do, stayed to finish out the year at Stanford.

I really think this is what Dean had in mind when he decided to keep the deal a secret, although I don't know if he would have gone through on it. I can just see him wanting to stay away from Sam so Sam could get used to being on his own, then tell Sam he was dying (not about the deal, of course) right before the hell hounds came to collect, just so Sam wouldn't have time to react.

This is kind of an experiment, I've never written anything in this style before... hope it doesn't show and that you guys like it. I'm not all that good with Dean... he's not nearly as easy as Sam. And I hope I didn't go too strong on the no-chickflick-moments rule.

Ah well. Tell me what you guys think.

*note - jurisprudence is totally a word. I know, surprised me too.

* * *

_**New message, received May 5, 12:03 PM.**_

**_BEEP._**

Hello, this is Sam Winchester. Leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

**_BEEP._**

_Heya Sammy, it's me. Hope everything's going all right over there in sunny Cali. _

(pause)

(throat clears)

_So yeah, didn't __run off to join the circus or film Girls Gone Wild in Mexico, just, well…_

(pause)

_Well, been kinda avoiding you, I guess._

_…Shit, that didn't come out right. Uh-_

(mutter)

**_BEEP._**

**_New message, received May 5, 12:45 PM._**

**_BEEP._**

Hello, this is Sam Winchester. Leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

**_BEEP._**

_Hey, it's me again. Sorry about that._

_I know, I know - I'm kind of cheating, calling your apartment in the middle of the day like this. Like a total nutcase I even checked your schedule to make sure you were out, and sure enough you have like three classes back-to-back right now, you freaky little overachiever. So there's no way you're gonna be there to pick up the phone. I mean, not unless you're planning on missing, uh... Therapeutic Ju... Jurisprudence? JIs that even a word? Therapeutic, now, that sounds like it should involve some kind of massage, hopefully with some hot chick in glasses and not, say, a tiny Asian man named Steve, but I just dunno about that last one, Sam, wouldn't be surprised if that's something a frilly lawyer made up so he could sound like even more of an asshole._

(pause)

_And yeah, smartass, I know I could have just written a letter if all I wanted was a monologue, but this way you get to hear my pretty, pretty voice, and far be it from me to deny you the pleasure. Yup, that's me, thinking of you like always._

(laugh)

(pause)

_You're probably wondering where I've been and all since I left your sorry ass at Nerd Central. Or maybe you're not - in which case good, 'cause I don't have the time to list every shithole in America. All you gotta know is that I've been up to the usual old schtick, nothing new there._

_Anyway. I, uh… well, I'm kinda on this… hunt. Yeah, a hunt. Uh. It's kinda... personal, okay, so don't mind if I don't bust out with all the gory details. Don't worry about it though, __Joe College__, it's got nothing to do with you.  
_

_Except that well, I ah... I'm not coming back after this one, Sammy. Like, this is it. End of the line. Don't ask me how I know – though hell, it's not like it'll help you any, seeing as how this is a fricking machine you're listening to – but I do. Nothing I or anyone can do about it.  
_

_I'm not bullshitting you here, I swear. I'm checking out, Sam. Kicking the bucket. Meeting up with Elvis. __Buying the goddamn farm. Take your pick, I'm it._

(pause)

_I know, I sound pretty awesome for a dead guy, huh? Talk about dulcet tones - baby, I'm practically an angel. __Heh, admit it Sam, you know you're gonna miss -_

**_BEEP._**

**_New message, received May 5, 12:51 PM._**

**_BEEP._  
**

Hello, this is Sam Winchester. Leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

**_BEEP._**

_Yeah right, you'll get back. Jeeze, you sound like one of those tech support guys, all helpful and sincere and let-me-put-you-on-hold-for-two-fucking-hours. Assholes. _

_Not that I've had to call them or anything like that. I know how to handle a laptop, thanks. Don't need you around for that.  
_

(throat clears)

_But seriously, way to sound like a robot. If I were you I'd go for something more personal, like "hey, Dean's geeky little brother here, call 554-7239 if you're a sexy chick looking for a good time, hang up and look for me at the next emo poetry club meeting if you're not. I'll be the tall guy eating a salad."_

(chuckle)

_All right, maybe not that one. You should probably mention your own name, and really it's not like I have much time left for the hot girl hotline thing. Although, pretty sweet if I did._

_...I probably wouldn't get much use out of it anyway, you being the Great Prude and all. Honestly, Sam? Sometimes I wonder if you know cooties aren't real._

_Haha, I can sense the patent angry Sam glare from here. Okay dude, dropping it. Not like I'm calling to lecture you about your sex life anyway – I figure after spending most of our lives in the same room, you've__ already__ learned everything you need from me._

_Which makes me calling you now seem kinda pointless, now that I think about it._

_Except you know what? _Fuck _that. These are _my _dying words or whatever, and if I want to go on and on about girls and hot Asian action, I damn well will._

_Or not. That's the point, I get to decide._

(pause)

_Maybe later. Keep you on your toes._

(pause)

_So. _

_Uh… _

_Crap. Thought this'd be easier without you mouthing off on the other end, but... hah, guess not. _

_Damn it, there were things I... Should have probably made a list or something. Except that's totally a geek thing to do, so never mind.  
_

_Hey, when - when I go... truth is, Sammy, I'm expecting great things outta ya. Fuck hunting and the blue-collar shit, you're gonna make Winchester _history_, living large off some cushy lawyering gig. I'm talking six-figure salary here, geekstein, and like, a pool in the backyard filled with those… colory straw things… they're called noodles, I think? Yeah. Yeah, there better be some fucking noodles in that pool, bitch. Ain't no kind of pool without some noodles._

_Hah, yeah._

_Oh, and-  
_

**_BEEP._**

**_New message, received May 5, 12:54 PM._**

**_ BEEP._**

Hello, this is Sam Winchester. Leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

**_BEEP._**

_Fuck, Sammy, this getting cut off shit is getting old. Would have been nice if your voicemail wasn't as dry as Bobby's shopping list, too. Not that I've ever bought the man groceries, but I__'d swear that __man lives off bacon and tequila._

_...Where was - right. Noodles. Get on that, Sam. _

_Oh, and no kind of rich life's complete without a sweetass ass around, if you know what I mean. She better be miles out of your league, too, or I'm telling you man, I'll be pretty disappointed. And speaking of butts, maybe you can ring up that Sarah chick, she was pretty fixed on yours if I remember right. Plus she's kinda hot. Hey, who knows, maybe she can balance out your fugliness if you guys ever decide to have some mini-Winchesters running around? We can only hope, right? I mean, we all know I got the good genes in the family.  
_

(pause)

_About that.__The thought of you spawning is weird, and__ I know you got a good couple of years before you'll even have the balls to ask someone out, let alone knock her up, but uh, since I won't be there for it, and neither's Dad, figure I might as well cover my bases. __Call it a preemptive strike. _

(pause)

_So yeah, you having little Sammys running around? I mean, it's really not like I can tell you much about being a parent, but don't sweat it. Trust me, as long as you keep your priorities straight, you'll be fine.  
_

_Or not like Dad, anyway, which I'm guessing's your main thing. _

_Now I know you'll do your best to make your kids all dweeby and normal and creepy smart like you, and hey, nothing wrong with that aside from I think cloning's illegal. But I'm telling you right now, any nephews of mine – and nieces too, for that matter – better damn well know how to handle a gun. Just to be safe. If there's anything to learn from this, _any _of this, it's that it never hurts to be prepared. You never know what might come in useful. _

_That goes for Metallica too. Master of Puppets, you got me? That's some lifesaving shit right there.  
_

_Which reminds me. Keep the Radiohead down to a zero in my car, you hear? Treat my girl like a lady, or I'll… uh. Well, I won't haunt you, 'cause to be honest that'll probably just bore me to death again, but ah, I will be unhappy with you, all right? And we don't want that._

_…Of course, it'd probably help if you had the car to start with. Shit. Well, I'll probably drop her off somewhere and call Bobby to come pick her up, say aloha to the old man while I'm at it. But I want you to have her, okay Sam? My baby was meant to be driven._

_I uh… Huh. Hey, I think that __pretty much __covers - _

**_BEEP._**

**_New message, received May 5, 1:05 PM._**

**_BEEP._**

Hello, this is Sam Winchester. Leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

**_BEEP._**

_...Hey. Me again._

_Still think this is a crappy voicemail. All the same, though, it's good to hear you. Even if it isn't really, you know, you._

(pause)

_One last thing - you take care of yourself, Sam. All right? Eat your Lucky Charms and all that. Grow another inch and go for a Guinesse record. __Just do me a favor and don't_ _do anything stupid now that I'm not around to save your ass. I know you're gonna miss me, me being awesome and all, but dude, no need to go crazy. Stay cool._

_Or, y'know, try. Since it's you we're talking about here, after all._

(chuckle)

(pause)

_I'm kidding, you know that right? Just doing my job. _

_...The making fun of my pain-in-the-ass little brother job, I mean, not the..._

_I mean, you're okay.  
_

(pause)

_God__, I suck at this. _

(sigh)

(pause)

(throat clears)

(pause)

_Um, Sammy? I -  
_

**_BEEP. _**

**_No new messages. Inbox full._**


	2. Voicemail, Take 2

**Voicemail, Take Two**

* * *

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Sam wondered why professors couldn't coordinate their exam schedules so he didn't have two exams on the same freaking day. It seemed like conversing with colleagues should be a matter of course. Couldn't be that hard to just talk, could it?

He sighed. Then again, it wasn't like Sam could talk; wasn't like he was exactly a leading expert on communication. Although he, at least, had the excuse of being a Winchester – one might say it was practically in the job description.

…Okay, maybe job was the wrong term, and he didn't even have _that_, not anymore, but whatever.

At least he had a week left to study.

He stepped into his apartment, letting his bag slide to the ground as he absentmindedly shut the door behind him.

Sam's apartment was tiny enough that five steps in the living room took him into the kitchen. But it was cozy, with pictures on the walls and even a potted plant in the corner. The plant was a magnolia, a gift from a friend he'd received ages ago. It was a sturdy thing, which was rather fortunate since Sam frequently forgot to water it, not being used to having to take care of something that didn't moan or complain when it needed help.

And it was, he thought, as close as his apartment got to having a sign saying _seriously Sam, I'm not a motel room_.

The pictures, though, Sam had gotten before he moved in, put them up when he'd first got the shabby apartment. They were a strange assortment of modern art, artsy black-and-white photography and cover art for 80s rock bands, as well as one racy Jessica Alba picture taped to the inside of the bathroom door.

The strange incongruity – almost like there were two people living there rather than just one – drew inevitable comments from Sam's friends, somewhere in between jokes about Sam being a closet metalhead (_it does explain the hair_) and about sad MoMA wannabes. No one ever got anything but an offhand shrug, though, and the sudden hard glint Sam would get in his eyes soon had them stop asking questions.

The bathroom décor – if the skanky poster could really be called that – went under considerably more of an attack. His guy friends thought it was hilarious, of course, especially when Sam had reddened after the first couple of crude compliments and muttered something about it being a bad joke, but what few girls came by usually pulled a face and pointedly muttered something about _men_ and _that's not like you _and _thought you were different_.

After a moment of staring at nothing, Sam would just reply, very quietly, _guess not_.

…In any case, the poster stayed up.

Sam shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a chair with one hand as his other one reached up for a cabinet door. Peering hopefully into the space framed by cheap wooden boards, Sam only sighed a little when he found nothing but a useless bag of flour. Subsequent inspection of the other cabinets had similar results – which was to say, none.

Then a thought struck him, almost idly, and five seconds later had Sam crouching awkwardly to open the little-used cupboard to the right of the sink. His eyes strained to see into the dark corners, but a probing hand found whatever it was they failed to discern and closed on the smooth surface, pulling it out.

A little green-clad man countered Sam's stare with a wide smile, eyes dancing merrily at him as if sharing a secret. Pointed ears poked out from under a green bowler hat, almost teasing with their _maybe they're real _and _you never know _he remembered from back when he was a kid, back when his faith had outweighed by far what he actually knew.

For a long moment, Sam just stayed bent over like that, staring at what was only, in the end, an old box of stale Lucky Charms.

In a seamless movement, without a hint of an expression, without the slightest _almost _whisper, Sam returned the box to its former place under the sink, closing the door with gentle fingers.

He didn't bother to read the yellow post-it still attached to the back, but then he didn't really need to; Sam had committed the words to memory the day his brother had written them.

The day Dean vanished, the day Sam had woken up to bags of groceries and a box of cereal and no asshole of a brother making fun of his drooling over the pillow. The day his brother had left for good.

The day Sam became truly, and for the first time, alone.

The first day of no Dean.

As the door shut, the yellow post-it fluttered against an invisible breeze.

_So you don't whine about having to share. This is all yours, little brother._

_– D_

One hour and a quick grocery run later saw Sam leaning against the counter, checking out the newspaper as he bit distractedly on an apple. Finding nothing of interest – though to tell the truth even he didn't know what he was looking for – he finally folded it in two and placed it next to the stove.

A light flickered to his left, and he turned his head to see the answering machine winking at him from the kitchen table.

It was only a couple feet away, but even though Sam knew that logically it would be less of an effort to walk the two steps, he still lazily stretched out a sock-less foot to try to poke at the play button. It took him a few clumsy tries, but finally -

"**_You have: seven new messages, and one saved message_**_._"

Sam raised an eyebrow – he didn't remember ever getting so many calls to his apartment; most people knew to call his cell phone if they needed him. Which led him to conclude that either someone had misplaced his cell number, or that telemarketers were coming after him with a vengeance. He really hoped it wasn't the latter - one good thing about living in motel rooms was that telemarketers never called.

Taking another bite, he listened to the messages play, eyes straying idly back to the newspaper. After a scant second of hesitation he picked it up and turned to the comics – no reason he couldn't multitask.

**_"New message, received today, 12:03 am:_**_ Hey man, Tyler here. You're probably pulling an all-nighter at the library studying for Kingston's test tomorrow, and I know how strict they gets about cell phones, so I'm being all considerate and calling your house. What a good friend I am, huh? Yeah so, you know how you said I could borrow your IL notes from last Friday? When can I come over and pick them up? Because you know, the final's next week, and I could kinda use them. Anyway, call me. Oh, and good luck on the test. Not that you need it, of course. Later._"

Sam rolled his eyes. He should have known it was Tyler – the other messages were probably from him too. That guy was always doing things at the last minute, never seeming to understand urgency unless it was right before the deadline – it was only then that he'd start panicking and pull all stops to get things done.

And somehow, he _still_ always managed to be surprised when things didn't go his way.

Sam glanced at his watch - 4:34 pm – then shrugged and went back to reading Dilbert.

He'd get back to him later. Guy could wait.

"**_New message, received today, 10:05 am:_**_ This is GasPro, your friendly neighborhood electric company. Just wanted to remind you that as of next month, our rates are going up five percent. Please make the appropriate adjustments and make sure the check reflects the change. Sorry for any inconvenience, and have a wonderful day_."

The paper crumpled under Sam's clenched fingers.

Great. Just what he needed.

He sighed. Doing the mental math in his head, Sam figured he could probably fix his budget if he made some adjustments to his eating habits. He wasn't going to like it though.

But then, that was life, wasn't it.

"**_New message, received today, 12:03 pm._**"

There was a pencil next to the toaster, and Sam made a grab for it, started jotting down numbers in the empty spaces between Jon and Garfield's heads.

What if he started buying less fruit instead? No, Sam shook his head absently, that was starting a dangerous path right there, he needed the nutrition.

Hmm. What if he used water for oatmeal instead of milk? That wasn't too bad. Or if he bought more bags of rice and beans instead of refrigerated meals, maybe that would do the trick, they last longer any –

"_Heya Sammy, it's me._"

His hand froze mid-scribble.

Slowly, Sam raised his head to stare at the answering machine.

It was just like his brother, too, to say 'it's me' and not give out his name like a normal person, cockily presuming that whoever was listening would know who it was and had been waiting anxiously by the phone for his call, as if it just couldn't be anyone else, as if of _course_ you know who this is, I'm friggin' _Dean Winchester_.

...Except Sam couldn't really say he was wrong. Fifty years, a century, _forever_ wasn't long enough for Sam to forget this voice.

And there was only one person left in the world who could get away with calling him Sammy.

_...Dean?_

"_Hope_ _everything's going all right over there in sunny Cali_," he heard, as if it'd only been yesterday that Sam had left his family to start freshman year at Stanford. "_So yeah_," the voice continued lightly, sounding somehow like a wince and a smile put together, "_didn't run off to join the circus or film Girls Gone Wild in Mexico, just, well,…_"

The voice faltered, like maybe the forced nonchalance was getting too much for it too.

Sam's heart thumped wildly in his ears, and in a heartbeat he was next to the answering machine, _looming_ over it, practically challenging the blinking red light to a staring contest just _willing _for his brother to keep going, to not chicken out, to say _here's where I am, come find me_.

"…_Well, been kinda avoiding you, I guess,_" Dean's voice said quietly, and Sam felt a little like someone was putting his heart through the grinder. Of course, Sam had long ago realized that the reason Dean wasn't in touch was because he didn't _want _to stay in touch (_if he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, and Sam sometimes couldn't decide which would feel worse_), but hearing it said aloud so clearly made it all inescapable, forced Sam to come to grips with the fact his brother had left, had abandoned him without even telling him _why _(_what he did wrong_).

As if he was there (_except he wasn't, wasn't, hadn't been for _eight months_, remember_) as if he could somehow see the look on Sam's face, as if he was the brother Sam had used to think he was instead of the man who'd pulled a John Winchester and up and left without a word, Dean suddenly cursed, an unspoken apology crossing his lips like he was trying to take those words back. "_Shit_,_ that didn't come out right. Uh… _"

And then, right then, Sam could have sworn that time itself had stopped. For a long time after, he'd remember standing there breathlessly, helplessly, waiting for Dean to say something else, waiting for Dean to somehow make everything all right.

Because despite everything, Sam still believed Dean could.

He waited, and there was a tiny hitched breath, and Sam's hopes rose just a little…

...And then, the answering machine beeped.

Sam stared, uncomprehending. Except, yeah, there it went again, no denying it.

The answering machine fucking_ beeped_.

...It felt surreal. Almost laughable.

_That's it?_ he wanted to scream. _That's _it_? That's ALL I get?_

And not for the first time, Sam wondered whether this was Dean's revenge for hurting him too many damn times, whether Dean had finally just had it with Sam, finally cut him out of his heart as well as out of his life, whether it was his intention that Sam would feel like his chest was on _fire_, he was aching so badly.

Maybe, the part of him that wasn't frozen or burning thought distantly, maybe this was Dean's way of finalizing it. Cutting the cord.

_If that's how it is, he could have done it months ago_, Sam thought back bitterly. Done it then, gotten it over with. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt so badly, if Sam had understood everything from the start.

And then came the painful thought: _maybe that's why_.

Sam gripped the kitchen table with his hands, knuckles turning white, because a Dean who hated him, or worse, a Dean who didn't care, Sam couldn't even imagine, it had always felt so impossible.

Except, except, maybe not anymore.

_Didn't you use to love me?_ Sam wanted to shout, but his teeth clenched against the weak words, forced them instead to burn his throat as they were shoved back down, and echoed inside him hollowly.

…He _felt _hollow.

"**_New message, received today, 12:45 pm_**," the damn thing told him serenely, and Sam had half a mind to just pull it out of the wall, he didn't need this, Tyler could leech off someone else for a change, and he could go without milk for days, weeks, he didn't fucking feel like eating, he just, he just wanted…

Sam made to punch the wall, but mid-movement he stopped and let his eyes squeeze shut instead, let his forehead lean against the cool white surface and slid down until his knees bent.

...Screw what he wanted. He wasn't going to get it.

"_Hey, it's me again,_" he heard, and God he could feel his heart just _stop_. "_Sorry about that._"

Mechanically, Sam found himself pulling up a chair and sitting there as straight and rigid as if John friggin Winchester was breathing down his neck. He couldn't handle this, he thought wildly, thoughts scrambling for purchase in his head even as his hands were deceptively still in his lap.

He couldn't, wouldn't, it could only go one of two ways, and either one might break him –

"_I know, I know,_" his brother was saying easily, sounding so familiar Sam could almost see him holding up his hands and conceding '_all right you got me_', _"I'm kind of cheating, calling your apartment in the middle of the day like this. Like a total nutcase I even checked your schedule to make sure you were out, and sure enough you have like three classes back-to-back right now, you freaky little overachiever. S__o there's no way you're gonna be there to pick up the phone._" Was that relief or regret in his voice? "_I mean, not unless you're planning on missing, uh..._" there was some noise in the background, like papers rustling,"_Therapeutic Ju... Jurisprudence? Is that even a word? Therapeutic, now, that sounds like it should involve some kind of massage, hopefully with some hot chick in glasses and not, say, a tiny Asian man named Steve, but I just dunno about that last one, Sam, wouldn't be surprised if that's something a frilly lawyer made up so he could sound like even more of an asshole__._"

As he listened, Sam did his best, he really did. He tried to look at the bright side, take it as lightheartedly as his brother seemed to want him to, simply be happy that he was hearing from Dean at all. He tried to be like how he knew Dean had been, those few times Sam had bothered to (_been able to make himself_) call that first year at Stanford - just happy that Sam was alive and happy.

And it was, it _was _beyond good to hear his brother's voice, to know he was _there_, and _safe, _wherever he was, and still the wannabe jerk he'd always pretended (_or did he_) to be… but Sam couldn't be Dean, couldn't _not_ understand, couldn't get past the fact that the reason Dean didn't call his cell wasn't because of crappy reception or a lost number, but just because he couldn't stomach talking to Sam.

It… it gets a guy, you know, when he finds out his brother can't stand him.

"_And yeah, smartass_," Dean was telling him, Dean was laughing at him, as if the last eight months had been only in Sam's head (_if only_), "_I know I could have just written a letter if all I wanted was a monologue, but this way you get to hear my pretty, pretty voice, and far be it from me to deny you the pleasure. Yup, that's me, thinking of you just like always._"

_Like you used to_, _you mean_, Sam couldn't help thinking, and maybe Dean somehow heard him, because he laughed uncomfortably, like he didn't know what to say, or like he knew it was a lie.

Dean kept talking, telling him what he'd been up to, and Sam listened and couldn't help frowning. Something felt... off, for some reason, like there was the proverbial elephant in the room (or wherever Dean was, anyway) and while Sam didn't know what it was Dean was trying his best to step around it but doing kind of a shitty job and falling on his face instead. It sure felt like Dean was holding something back, but only God (and Dean) knew what it was. Maybe some kind of emotion Dean was too uncomfortable with expressing - yeah, that was all too likely with his brother - or maybe just something he didn't want Sam to know.

Slowly, without Sam even noticing, misery and pain began to be replaced by something completely different.

Curiosity.

"_Anyway. I, uh… well_," and there was that familiar inappropriate chuckle, the one that was usually followed by 'you won't believe me if I told you' or 'they're only bruised, Sammy, not broken, jeeze,' and half Sam's curiosity became simple dread, "_I'm kinda on this… hunt. Yeah, a hunt. Uh. It's kinda... personal, okay, so don't mind if I don't bust out with all the gory details. Don't worry though, Joe College, it's got nothing at all to do with you_."

Right. It all sounded perfectly innocent, yeah, but Sam had known Dean his entire life and couldn't help having alarms went off in his head. Call him paranoid, but for some reason Sam was getting the feeling that this was not just a hunt, not just personal, and he, Sam, had _everything_ to do with it.

"_Except that, well, I uh… I'm not coming back after this one, Sammy._"

And that's about when Sam started reaching for his cell phone, when he started to realize maybe he had it wrong all along, that maybe Dean _was_ the big brother Sam had always thought he was.

…Which was to say, a stupid, moronic, _son of a bitch._

* * *

_A/N: _I had a lot of people wanting to hear chapter one from Sam's point of view, and somehow this chapter didn't fight me too much in coming out. Here's hoping I didn't disappoint. Please give me some feedback - do you think the boys are in character? Am I going about this the right way?

For anyone who's interested, there will be one more chapter, I think.

(And for those of you who have this on alert - the past two chapters have been tinkered with, and you might want to read the updated versions. Especially chapter 1.)


	3. Phone Call

**Phone Call  
**

* * *

_Ring. Ring. Ri-_

_Click._ "Your dumb ass better have a good -"

"_Where is he?_"

Bobby blinked.

"Sam?" he let out in surprise, thinking to himself that he should really try to make a habit of looking at the caller ID before answering his phone.

He hadn't been expecting to hear from Sam – been months since their last fruitless conversation about his older brother's whereabouts, and while Bobby had known better than to think that Sam had completely given up on Dean, he'd been pretty sure Sam had given up on getting anything out of him. It was startling, to put it mildly, to get a call after so long.

Especially considering the timing.

"What-"

"Don't do this to me, Bobby," the youngest Winchester interrupted tersely. "_Where _the _hell _is Dean?"

Bobby sighed and sat down in a chair, looking away from the table littered with maps and lists of contacts. "Sorry kid," he replied, wishing with all he got that he had a different answer to give, "been trying to find that out myself." He stopped a moment, eyebrows furrowing. Strange, but it almost sounded like Sam _knew_. "How'd you-"

"He... he called me. Today. Left a voicemail." Sam paused for a second, then gave a bitter, breathless laugh. "Eight months of me wondering if he was even alive, and the bastard leaves a fucking _voicemail_."

Bobby closed his eyes for a moment, one hand rising to knead his forehead. "Shit, Sam…"

"A _voicemail_. Saying he's going to, to–" the boy's voice finally tore, the angry mask slipping a little. "…What the hell's going on, Bobby?"

"I…" something lodged in his throat, stopped him from getting a word out. Probably the BLT sandwich from lunch, he thought fleetingly.

What a way to find out. _Damn it, Dean._

"He said…" Sam began, stopped, started over, "He said he's on a hunt. But it's not just a hunt, is it, Bobby? This…" the man could hear him swallow, seriously, this _kid_ - "this has something to do with why he left. Why he wanted me to go back to school."

Bobby considered lying, but frankly, Sam deserved better, and Dean was pissing him off anyway.

Still. He'd made a promise.

"…It might," he conceded reluctantly.

"Tell me," Sam's voice pleaded – no, commanded.

He leaned back and stared at the wall, scrambling for something to give the boy other than _your brother sold his soul so you could live. _"He doesn't want you to know," he said lamely, hesitating as he stopped to consider just why, in fact, Dean didn't.

On the one hand, Sam more than deserved to know what was really going on. This was his brother, dying for his sake and leaving him to be the last Winchester in the world. On the other hand, though, Bobby didn't know how well Sam could handle the truth. Discovering that his brother was not only dying, but going to hell, to be in eternal agony – and for him, no less…

It wouldn't be a cakewalk for anyone, much less a Winchester.

He stifled an angry, helpless growl. It was too late to back out of it now, but he was still sorely tempted to hang up and leave the boy clueless, let his stupid asshole of a brother handle this himself.

…Except Dean _was _a stupid asshole, and Bobby wasn't having any luck finding Sam's brother. And if the past months were any indication, Dean wasn't about to call Sam and clear things up. No more than he already had, it seemed.

Which apparently left it all up to Bobby.

Meanwhile, Sam was waiting impatiently on the other end of the line, and the haunted quality to his voice made hanging up damn near impossible anyway. "The hell with what Dean wants," he croaked. "Bobby_, __tell me_."

Fine.

"Remember last year, when Dean and I found you…with Jake?" he asked, with a wince.

As if Sam could forget.

Judging by the irritation and wariness in Sam's voice, there was little doubt in his mind that the youngest Winchester was thinking something along the same lines. "Yeah. What about it?"

He exhaled slowly, wished again that Dean was here, if only for him to chuck the phone at.

"Well, kiddo… you didn't exactly make it," he said, as gently as he could.

(Which wasn't much, okay, seeing as it was Bobby, but damn it all, give a guy credit for trying.)

Bobby could practically feel the boy's heart skip a beat. "...What?"

He couldn't help a grimace, but Bobby Singer had never been one to mince words. "You died, Sam," he replied simply. "Jake killed you - ran the knife clean through your spinal cord."

The denial was brief – merely a wordless noise, full of something Bobby wasn't about to try to analyze – and the man almost suspected that Sam had been expecting the blow.

Which just goes to show how nutty the Winchesters were, always questioning good news and never doubting the worst.

"But then how-" the boy started asking, and left off abruptly.

The man waited. There was a reason Sam had gotten a full ride to Stanford, and it sure as hell wasn't because of his extracurriculars.

"He didn't."

Bobby closed his eyes. Didn't say a word.

"...Bobby, tell me he _didn't_. That he didn't make a... didn't make a -"

"He did," he said quietly. Then added softly, awkwardly, "Sorry."

For a long moment, Sam was silent, as if stricken dumb.

"But then," he said again, desperately, "he can't be – tonight – he has ten years. That's how long they – he has to have _ten years_," he insisted, suddenly sounding all of eight years old, maintaining that dragons were real because _Uncle__ Bobby, they just _have _to be_. "Ten years, Bobby. That's the way it _works_."

Bobby felt a pang in his chest, and once again cursed Dean for leaving Sam, for ignoring his calls, for being a selfish little _prick_. For being so much goddamn trouble that hell wanted him badly enough to change the _rules. _

…Because it hurt, crushing this boy's world.

"You know your brother," he said roughly, with a wince he was glad no one could see. "Always has to do things his way. A year… a year's all he got."

The Winchester was quiet again, and suddenly a mental image of Sam's anguished, shattered face assaulted the world behind Bobby's eyelids, as clear and focused as a Kodak picture.

"I've narrowed it down a little," he said lamely after a moment, trying to keep Sam focused on the here and now. "Pretty sure he's not anywhere near the East coast."

Which left them more than half the fucking country to search through, Bobby realized full fucking well.

But hell, it was better than nothing.

"Sam?" he spoke again into the silence, worried when he couldn't hear anything but soft, rapid breathing. "Boy, you with me?"

More silence. Then, quietly –

"You knew. All along, you knew."

Bobby almost flinched. The fury and pain lacing the accusation might as well have been a stab in the chest.

"I trusted you. I went to you for _help _when I couldn't find him." Ragged breath. "I _called _you, so many times, and… and you lied to me."

"Not - Sam, I didn't know where -"

"How could you do it? Bobby, _how could you not tell me_?"

"…I promised Dean I wouldn't, Sam," he answered lowly, aware it wasn't enough, could never be enough. "It was his right to ask."

The Winchester's voice was quiet, hissed, and yet not an iota less sharp and furious than if he'd yelled. "It's _my_ life. He's _my_ brother. It's _my _fucking right to know if he sells his soul for me!"

"I know," Bobby replied. It wasn't an attempt at placation, just the truth. He knew. "But he wants you to be happy."

"How am I supposed to be happy when the only -" John's son shouted, then caught himself. "He's – Dean - Bobby, Dean's _all I have_. How can I even… if he's _gone_, Bobby?"

"...I don't have the slightest idea, son," Bobby admitted softly. He didn't know how many times he'd argued that very point with Dean, but it had been like yelling at a brick wall - only thing it did was increase your lung capacity. "Figure that's why he wanted you to go back to school. Get you used to flying solo again, make it easier for you to get on with your life."

"Idiot," Sam spat.

Bobby didn't disagree.

"That's three hundred and sixty five days I could have spent looking for a way out of his deal. Three... three hundred and sixty five days I could have _been _there for him. _God_, Bobby, for him to go through it alone... just sitting there waiting to..." The boy breathed in with a shudder, and then, asked unwillingly, hesitantly, "Dean doesn't... he doesn't _want _to go to hell... does he? This isn't because of - of Dad?"

"No, Sam," Bobby replied heavily, although God knew there had been times when he'd wondered the same thing. "…He just wants you to live."

For a moment, Sam didn't say anything, and for a second Bobby could almost hear it -

_I just want both of us to live. Why's it only too much when I'm the one doing the asking?_

_It isn't fair_, Bobby thought, and not for the first time either. _It isn't fair to either of them._

"Why tell me now?" Sam then asked quietly, and his voice was croaky but steady. "You could have kept your promise, fed me some cock and bull story. Lied to me again."

Bobby leaned back in his chair. "If you're asking me what made me change my mind, I didn't," he said honestly. It's not like he didn't deserve his share of the guilt, the blame (_he'd been holding out on the boy ever since he saw him walking in with a guilty, guarded Dean), _but he wanted Sam to have his story straight. "Boy, I might have respected your brother's wishes, but I never agreed with him. Thought he was a damn fool about it, too, leaving you and all, but in the end he's your family and it was his secret to tell. And he wanted you happy, Sam. Couldn't argue with that."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, him ditching me made me _so _happy."

His words were vicious, sarcastic, but the funny thing was that Bobby knew that this was it, the boy was done. Done crying, done feeling sorry for himself, done being useless. He was getting into what Bobby liked to call Winchester fighting mode – ruthless, calculating, focused, and fuck anyone who got in his way.

It gave him the shivers, hell yeah it did, but if that's what it took to find Dean, Bobby was willing to take it.

He sighed, then got to the heart of the matter. "I've been looking for Dean for weeks now, haven't had any luck. He's holed up somewhere good. If anyone can find him, Sam, it's you." _It better be you_.

"Oh, I'll find him," Sam promised darkly.

"I believe you," Bobby said, because someone needed to. Because Dean believed, and Dean Winchester might be a hardheaded and selfish bastard, but he knew Sam better than anyone.

So Bobby believed, and Bobby hoped. And no matter what promises Bobby made, no matter the pain and guilt and rage Bobby couldn't see flaring in Sam's eyes right now, no matter what darkness and desperation Bobby feared he'd unleashed on an unsuspecting world, Bobby just couldn't find it in himself to regret telling Sam the truth.

Because Sam's brother had one day left. Because Sam's brother was a self-sacrificing idiot.

But mostly because if no one stopped him, Dean was going to die alone.

...And fuck if Bobby was going to let that happen.

* * *

A/N: So apparently I have a few more chapters left in me than I thought. There will be at least one more, I think, from Dean's point of view...

Hope you're enjoying this. Please review!


	4. Twilight

**Twilight

* * *

_Author's Note: _**_This, as far as I know, is the final chapter. This has also been my favorite chapter to write, for reasons you might come to understand as you read on. It's a very different writing style than my usual, I think, but it came out exactly how I wanted it to - or, considering I didn't really have much of an idea, even better. Writing __Dean's __drunk stream-of-consciousness is very fun, and writing inebriated-and-not-thinking-about-Sam-yeah-right Dean is even more fun. I suggest you all try it._

_Warning: Contains drunk!Dean and slight sibling violence. It's all pretty PG, though, other than the language that is. Oh, and you might want to have tissues handy, just in case._

* * *

"Who do you have on him?" Sam had asked, meaning _please tell me you have someone like Ash_ _or we don't have a chance_.

"I have a couple hunters keeping an eye out," Bobby said, and before Sam could yell _that's not enough_ he continued, "and there's a guy I know who can hack into satellite feed and find anything I ask him to… but he needs something a little more specific than the entire continental United States."

Sam tried to think. If he was Dean, and he had one day (_more like seven hours, fifteen minutes and counting_) to live, where would he go?

The logical answer was somewhere remote, as far away from Sam as he could manage. Dean being Dean, he'd probably want to have the possibility of running across Sam as infinitesimal as possible. Dean being Dean, he'd probably also want to go out fighting, so that meant he'd be hunting something, except Bobby had already tried that route and _boy, we have enough of a headache on our hands without chasing ghosts on top of it_.

That was all making the assumption, though, that the Dean of a year ago was the same Dean who'd rung his apartment, the same brother who'd spent an entire year facing death alone without Sam – the same brother who'd slunk off the radar like a lone wolf into the woods, resigned to die by himself.

Except, maybe he wasn't. With the way he never faltered, always got back up with a cocky grin and a bad joke, Sam had always secretly thought Dean might as well be Superman, he was just that unflappable.

But maybe, _just_ _maybe_, Dean was more human than he'd realized. A year was a long time, after all. This Dean, the one who had let himself contact his brother, however indirectly, however late in the game… That Dean would give himself a break, wouldn't he? Allow himself a few more weaknesses?

It was all he had. "Have him try California."

"California?" There was obvious surprise in the older man's voice. "You really think Dean would…" Bobby trailed off, then repeated incredulously, "California?"

"Just do it," Sam said shortly, and hung up the phone.

_Come on, Dean, _he pleaded in his head, _just give me this._

_This_._ Just this._

_That's all I ask._

* * *

There was something about twilight that seemed to almost stretch time, Dean reflected, then made a face as he ran the hokey thought again through his head. Jeeze, if he hadn't known for a fact that he wasn't a chick and actually had the tolerance of a healthy red-blooded male, he might have suspected the Jack Daniels from earlier had got to him more than he'd thought.

Dean shook his head, making the beach in front of him blur sideways like some kind of light show. He was _so_ beyond the angsty-emo-teenage crap by now, he asserted to himself, taking another long, satisfying swallow from his beer.

That sort of thing had always been Sammy's specialty, anyhow.

He chortled a little at that thought, for some reason finding it funny – all right, maybe he was a _little_ more buzzed than he'd realized – and then like he'd been doing for the past day (_eight months, really_), took a swig and promptly flooded the thought out of his head. This late in the game, Dean had gotten pretty good at detecting dangerous thoughts and almost as good at wiping them out before they meta– metasta – uh, got any worse, and if there was anything to learn from anything anywhere anytime, it was that any thought related to his brother was pretty much a definite killjoy.

Which made a lot of sense, really, since his brother wasn't much fun to be around in person, either.

The beer finished itself ahead of schedule (_only five hours, twenty five minutes and thirty seconds to go_), and after a moment of staring down the neck hopefully, searching for just a drop or two – come on, come on – Dean groaned and threw the bottle to the side of the porch, where it made a sad little clinking sound as it butted heads with some of its bunkmates. His hand dunked down to where he had another six-pack lying in wait, and he absently ripped the plastic wrap and twisted open another bottle.

Dean didn't actually remember at the moment how he got to this ocean-side cabin, but he thought it might have had something to do with a favor and a cursed wedding ring or bouquet or something like that. It didn't really matter to him now, though, since the end result was that he wasn't paying for it and no one was bugging him, which was all he really cared about. Plus the view wasn't too bad, either – clean sand, clear skies, the whole surf and turf. His jeans were a little wet and itchy still from going in earlier, because maybe Dean didn't do shorts but he wasn't fool enough to miss out on an opportunity when he saw one. Winchesters never spent much time at the beach, and this was a pretty good time to rectify that bitch, Dean had thought.

He did feel a little bad, though, about the ever-growing mound of empty bottles in the corner - not enough to stop adding to it, mind you, but he sent a little mental apology out into the world to find whoever the fuck owned this place, and hoped that that was the worst they would ever find here, just empty bottles and cans and a cheap razor and not, say, a corpse.

How did that work, anyway? he wondered, tipsy enough that the thought was little more than just detached curiosity and not, like, depressing. Dean knew hell hounds had something to do with the whole going-to-hell process, but was otherwise pretty skimpy on the details. For all he knew, hell hounds were just hell's harmless escort service, sort of like guide dogs for the blind, just replace _the blind_ with _souls of unlucky bastards_.

Yeah, and there'll be sunshine and unicorns and lollipops for everyone._  
_

He sniggered. It was a heck of a lot more likely that hell hounds just ate their victims whole, like maybe the netherworld was just in the pit of their stomachs, or as if they were hell's version of a Star Trek matter transporter.

Damn, that'd be something to see, he thought idly as he leaned back in his chair and stared down the ocean, downing another bottle without even noticing.

_Crap, not again. _He glared at the empty bottle for a bit (_no, it's _your _fault_), then tossed it aside in favor of a shiny new one.

In his defense, drinking the time away hadn't exactly been on Dean's list of things to do. He'd only started drinking after waiting around for a bit and realizing that rather than going for the accurate I-sold-my-soul-at-seven-o'-fucking-clock-in-the-morning, hell's bitches were going for the whole dramatic death-at-midnight shebang. He figured it was as much of a reprieve as he was ever going to get, so he'd done the natural thing and driven to the local Kwik-E-Mart to get the means to properly celebrate his seventeen extra hours. And buy some liquid courage to call Sam.

Turns out, though, that once you started drinking it got pretty damn hard to stop. Especially when all (_shut up_) he wanted or needed was right there – a shitload of beer and his baby, parked right there on the sandy driveway, a little too conspicuous for his liking but hey, not like anyone was around to recognize it. And of course, a fucking stellar view of the ocean wasn't bad, either.

He stared into the setting sun – the thing about dying was that you didn't really sweat the details, like the possibility of maybe someday going blind –and the pretty way the yellows and reds hit the ocean in shimmering, kind of spidery patterns. He didn't bother to think about the world out there beyond it, China and Nepal and Timbuktu and France and other places he'd never been and never would, because Dean had never really wondered about those places even before the deal, and he would never really consider going anywhere the Impala couldn't follow.

Dean thought, Dean drank, Dean watched, and eventually the sun sneaked under the water without so much as a by-your-leave, and Dean rolled his eyes but didn't mind too much because it had been nice, as far as sunsets go, and who the hell was he to complain about anything leaving, anyway.

Somewhere in Dean's congealing thoughts popped the notion that enough was enough, there was something he should be doing and he was being a lazy asshole. He told it sluggishly to take a hike, but it stubbornly shook its floppy head and nagged at him until he remembered that fuck, he still had things to do, still had to go give Bobby the Impala, or at least drop it off somewhere on the way so the old man didn't have to go too far to fetch it because he owed the old bastard that much, at least.

However, that, the voice reminded him with a familiar uppity smugness (that Dean didn't like or appreciate _whatsoever_), involved sobriety.

For the first time since lunch (_good ol' SpaghettiO's_), Dean's hand set down on the wooden floor a bottle that wasn't depressingly empty. Instead, Dean stood up from the easy chair, stole a look at his watch, swore aloud colorfully and nastily, then stumbled through the back door back into the cabin.

A bed beckoned to him temptingly from across the bathroom, but he ignored it and instead rummaged the duffle bag on it for a somewhat-clean set of clothes, then headed off into the shower.

He took his sweet time, letting the water wash away his headache – that's the last thing he needed, really, to go to hell with a hangover – although he still didn't take as long as some people might (_just saying_, he told the annoyed voice in his head). There was still a clean towel or two left on the rack after a week of long showers, and Dean quickly dried off and put on fresh clothes, feeling almost disappointingly clearheaded and sober – except that was a good thing, right.

For a little bit after, he stared into the mirror (_this, this is what you're gonna become_) and bade farewell to the handsome (if admittedly haggard) son of a gun looking back at him. Then with a final mournful sigh for his lost inebriation, Dean Winchester put on his socks, pulled on his boots, and opened the bathroom door.

He ignored the Sam sitting on his bed – okay, not that sober after all – and went through his duffle bag searching for his cell phone. It had somehow found its way inside a dirty sock over the past months, but Dean tried not to think about that and fished it out anyway. When Dean turned it on (_hello, Nokia_) it seemed to be running on full battery, which was a damn lucky break because Dean did _not_ plan to sit around and wait for the damn thing to charge for a couple more hours he didn't have.

Not when he had places to be, people to avoid. You know, the usual.

_Thirty-one missed calls_, the display read, and Dean's stomach did a funny little twist as he stared down at it. He deleted each and every one, of course – it didn't matter how many were from Bobby and how many from whoever else had his number – but as always, he couldn't help lingering a little on each entry in his phonebook, almost tempted but on second thought, really not.

He flipped closed the cell phone and shoved it in his pocket. Three hours was plenty of time to call Bobby with directions, he figured, zipping the bag shut and hefting it unto his shoulder.

"Going somewhere?"

Dean froze, thoughts tripping. His heart might have skipped a beat, but then he wasn't really paying attention.

He held still, not enough to tell if there really was someone on his bed or if he was only imagining it – he'd always had an active imagination, but just in case – and somehow pulled together a flimsy grin. "Yeah, thought I'd take my girl out for a last spin or two," he said to the room, voice a little hoarse but pretty good, all considering.

He waited breathlessly, almost disappointed when there was no reply, but he just let out a sigh – the things impending doom did to a man, seriously – and started for the door.

He didn't turn around. There was only so much a guy could take.

Dean froze again when he heard footsteps, deliberate ones, ones that sounded uncannily like some giant trying to pace itself, nearing and overtaking him. Hands larger than his grabbed his shoulders and spun him around like a mannequin, brought him face to face with long hair and a long nose and hazel eyes and it was, it was –

"Sam," he said in wonder, really meaning _Sammy _and _you're real _and _what the hell are you doing here?_ "What the hell are -"

Dean's world turned white for a couple of seconds, and he didn't realize what was going on until he was suddenly blinking up at his brother and thinking _whoa, I knew he was tall but not _that _tall_ and _ouch _and hey wait, he was on the floor.

…Oh.

Dean raised a hand to rub at his left cheek, trying to come to grips with the fact that Sammy had somehow found him and apparently also had a heck of a right hook. He squinted up, a little stunned (and a little irritated, honestly, because okay, it's not like he didn't deserve that, but did it really have to hurt this much?) to find a similar _bzuh_? look on his little brother.

"I might be a little drunk," he started to explain, embarrassed, but somewhere in the middle his brother dropped to his knees, looking like his world was falling apart, and Dean braced himself for another punch but instead found himself with an armful of Sammy.

"You jerk, you _jerk_," Sam mumbled fiercely over and over into Dean's leather jacket, getting it damp, and Dean leaned back on the wall with a soft sigh and closed his arms around his little brother.

"I know," he replied, just once because even now, an apology was out of the question, and then closed his eyes as he resigned himself for a lengthy wait, because this might be totally hokey, but it was what Sam needed, and Dean had never been able to refuse Sam anything, not when it really mattered.

...And if he held on just as hard as Sam, well, no one but Sam would ever know, and besides, Dean might have been a little drunk.

---

_"I know it's too late to get you out of this deal," Sammy whispered finally, hands fisting at his sides as they stood there, waiting. "But I will get you out of there, Dean. I swear it. _I will get you out._"_

_"I believe you," Dean whispered back, because he did, he always did when it came to Sammy._

_And right then might as well have been twilight, because at that moment, waiting with his brother, time seemed to be stretching out infinitely, and midnight just might never come._

* * *

_A/N: everyone gets a lollipop. You guys for making it this far, Sam and Dean get a lollipop for putting up with my angsty whims, and I get a lollipop for getting those two to hug - I swear I never planned it, but then it just happened and I swear, it's almost like they wanted to. What do you guys think, was it believable? I tried really hard for it..._

_Til next time,_

_RPS_

_PS:I also get a lollipop for using bzuh as an adjective. That takes talent, people.  
_

* * *


End file.
